Within minutes, she realized that they had not stopped at the Desmond family’s burial site. As she walked beside Aunt Clarice, she looked ahead to the dark green tent over the open grave. This was the Royale family plot, where Louis’s father and mother were buried. A huge decorative stone, embellished with angels on either side, rested at the head of the open grave. As they drew closer, Jolie saw the inscriptions on the monument. Inscribed in the gray marble was her father’s name and date of birth. Her heart sank when she read Georgette Royale’s name beside his.
Joining Aunt Clarice and Yvonne, Jolie took her seat on the second row of folding chairs near the grave. Nowell Landers stood behind her aunt, his large tanned hands resting on Clarice’s shoulders. Her father’s second family occupied the first row—Georgette and her children. And even her brother Parry.
“Dear family and friends of Louis Royale, our hearts are heavy today,” Reverend Arnold said, and went on to sing her father’s praises, to list his many accomplishments and to offer condolences to the family as well as hope for a reunion in the hereafter.
Twenty years ago she had been in the hospital, hovering between life and death and unable to attend the funerals of her mother and aunt. In the years since, she had avoided funerals, finding excuses not to attend. But here she was at the funeral of a father she hadn’t seen in twenty years. She would get through this final graveside service and make it through this day. Somehow. Some way.
While the minister continued his praise of a fine and honorable man, rays of the hot June sun bounced off the burnished gold metal casket. Once Reverend Arnold finished his oratory, he turned the service over to the Shriners, who proceeded to perform the Masonic burial rites for their brother who had at one time been a Potentate.
As the ceremony continued, Georgette’s weeping grew louder, until she was finally unconsolable. Jolie carefully watched the black-clad widow, whose performance was quite convincing. Was it possible that Georgette had truly loved her husband for himself as much as for his money and social position? Odd, Jolie thought, that she should consider that possibility now, when she’d never before given the second Mrs. Royale the benefit of the doubt.
But what did it matter if Georgette had loved Louis? It changed nothing. The two had indulged in an adulterous affair before her mother’s death and had married nine months after Audrey Royale had been murdered. Both acts were unforgivable.
“Poor Georgette,” Clarice murmured softly. “She would never survive this loss if not for Max. He will be her strength and her comfort. He’ll take care of all of us, just as Louis did.”
Hearing Max Devereaux praised so highly by her aunt didn’t surprise Jolie. She’d listened to Aunt Clarice singing the man’s praises on numerous occasions over the past few years. Max did this. Max said that. Max, the magnificent.
The image of Max cooling himself in the pond this morning flashed through Jolie’s mind. She cringed. No more flights of fancy, she cautioned herself. She would not fall victim to the spell Max apparently wove around every woman who knew him, young and old alike. She was no fourteen-year-old in the throes of her first mad crush on an older boy. Max Devereaux was persona non grata to her. As far as she was concerned, the man was the devil incarnate.
The pipers had come from the church to participate in the Masonic burial rites and now they played again as the family departed. The mournful wail of the Scottish bagpipes spread through the cemetery and lingered in the soul. Max ushered his mother, sister, and uncle into the first limousine, then stood by the car and glanced back at Jolie. Their gazes met and locked for a split second. The look he gave her chilled her to the bone. Did she have more to fear from Max than she thought? Was that hatred she’d seen in his eyes? Or had it been a warning?
“Come, dear girl,” Clarice said from inside the second limousine. “We must go straight to Belle Rose and be there to greet our guests.”
Jolie nodded, then hurriedly slid into the limousine beside her aunt. She would rather walk over hot coals or swallow a cup of glass slivers than participate in the postfuneral reception. Of course, she could skip the grand affair, make an excuse to return to the hotel and then come back later for the reading of her father’s will. But what excuse could she give Aunt Clarice? No, it was too late to back out now, too late to have second thoughts about her return to Sumarville—and to Belle Rose.
So Jolie Royale had shown up after all, and looking enough like her mother and aunts so that everyone recognized her immediately. She’d grown up to be a beautiful woman, more beautiful than her mother or Clarice and every bit as beautiful as Lisette, who’d been the fairest of the Desmond sisters. In fact, her resemblance to Lisette was uncanny.
Why was she here? Why hadn’t she stayed away? She had washed her hands of Louis, of Belle Rose, and of Sumarville years ago. Undoubtedly she expected to be named in the will, perhaps given a huge slice of the Royale pie.
Damn her for coming back, for dredging up all those old memories. People would start talking again, recalling the Belle Rose massacre. Word had it that Yvonne’s son Theron was stirring up trouble, probing into the old murder-suicide case. That boy needed to be stopped now before he stirred up a really big stink. Handling him might prove difficult, but it could be done. Handling Jolie Royale would be a different matter entirely. It was possible, wasn’t it, that she might already have remembered something significant about the murderer? Was that the real reason she’d finally returned to Sumarville? In the past, two attempts on her life had failed. If another attempt became necessary, failure wasn’t an option.
What I did, I did because I had to. I had no other choice. It had been the only way. God forgive me, I hadn’t planned to kill them all. But the others had gotten in the way. I couldn’t let them live, not when they knew what I’d done.
Yvonne moved from room to room, her presence subtle and nonobtrusive. Except for a warm hello from a few people close to the family, she was ignored, as all good servants were. It had long ago ceased to bother her that outsiders considered her nothing more than a housekeeper at Belle Rose. She had learned to accept what could and could not be in her life—something her son would never have to accept. Theron had no limitations, no unholy moments from his youth to taint his life or obligations that would hold him back from achieving his goals. She only hoped and prayed that his determination to prove Lemar innocent of the Belle Rose massacre wouldn’t ruin his political aspirations in Mississippi.
Yvonne had hired the catering service from Vicksburg that she’d used on numerous occasions, but despite always having been totally satisfied with their work, she kept a close watch on every aspect of today’s reception, from food preparation to the waiters’ and waitresses’ appearances and performances. She prided herself on perfection. She was good at her job. Clarice had pointed out to her once that with her managerial abilities she could have been a company CEO. Even now the thought made her smile.
Approximately two-thirds of the people who had attended the church service put in an appearance at the reception, filling the house to capacity. Of course, a few had already come and gone and more entered the front door every few minutes. The house would be a disaster once the crowd left, but she’d hired extra help to assist the daily maids to clean up tonight.
Clarice had already told her that she was expected to join the family when Gar Wells read the will. Yvonne supposed Louis had bequeathed her a small sum to show his appreciation for her loyal service. It would be expected. She sincerely hoped that he had left Clarice enough to live well for the rest of her life. Of course, Clarice still had some money of her own from when she’d sold her dress shop twenty years ago. Yvonne knew to the penny exactly how much. She and Clarice had no secrets. Not now. Not ever.
As she made her way through the back parlor, she heard Clarice’s voice, slightly agitated, the pitch an octave higher than normal.
“But you must stay here,” Clarice pleaded. “It’s ridiculous that you checked into the Sumarville Inn when there’s more than eno
ugh room for you at Belle Rose. After all, this is your home. Your old room is just the way you left it.”
“There’s no point in my leaving the inn,” Jolie said. “I’m returning to Atlanta in a few days, maybe even tomorrow, unless something in the will requires me to stay on.”
“Of course there will be something in Louis’s will that will require you to stay on. You’re his daughter. I’m sure he’s left an equal share of everything to you.”
“I doubt he did that. He had a new family to think about, to take care of. I’m sure he put their needs first in death as he did in life.”
Clarice slipped her arm around Jolie’s waist. “You’re still so bitter.” Clarice tsk-tsked and shook her head sadly. “Audrey was like that. Unable to forgive. Unable to understand human foibles. You mustn’t be this way, dear, dear Jolie. Don’t you know that in the long run hatred turns on you and causes you pain?”
“I’m sorry if you can’t understand why I feel the way I do, but I can’t accept the fact that Georgette took my mother’s place in this house less than a year after her death or the fact that she took my mother’s place in my father’s bed before Mama died.”
“Hush up!” Clarice tapped her index finger over her lips. “Someone might hear you.”
Yvonne hated seeing Clarice upset, and if this conversation went any further, she’d have a difficult time dealing with Clarice later. Everyone in the household made an effort to keep things on an even keel for Clarice, to keep her content and smiling. She simply wasn’t emotionally strong enough to deal with confrontation. Everyone here at Belle Rose was aware of that fact. Why wasn’t Jolie? It was for this very reason that Max hadn’t already kicked Nowell Landers’s ass from here to Jackson and back.
“Clarice, Mr. Landers is looking for you,” Yvonne said as she approached. A little white lie to calm the situation was in order.
“Nowell is looking for me?” Clarice’s eyelashes fluttered, youthful flirtation in the gesture.
Yvonne hadn’t seen Clarice react this way to a man since Jonathan. “Come on. Let me take you to him.” She hoped that Nowell Landers wouldn’t contradict her.
“But I haven’t persuaded Jolie to stay here at Belle Rose. She’s checked herself into the inn and says she’s leaving Sumarville in a few days.” Clarice hugged Jolie to her side. “Now that she’s home again, we can’t let her leave.”
“I’ll tell you what—you go find Mr. Landers and I’ll talk to Jolie,” Yvonne said. “How will that be?”
“Yes, of course. What a good idea. You have such a persuasive way about you.” Clarice kissed Jolie’s cheek, then released her and shook her finger in Jolie’s face. “You listen to Yvonne. Do you hear me? You won’t disappoint us, will you, sweet child?”
Jolie offered her aunt a weak half-smile. “I promise I’ll listen to Yvonne.”
That statement seemed to be enough to pacify Clarice, who waltzed off into the throng of partying mourners in search of her adoring suitor.
Yvonne turned to Jolie. “Would you like a breath of fresh air?”
“What do you have in mind?”
“I thought maybe we could escape to the back porch. Hopefully no one else has made it out that far, yet.”
“Are we going to have a come-to-Jesus talk?” Jolie asked.
Yvonne smiled. “So, you remember those little talks I used to give Theron and you.” She sighed. “Yes, I suppose that’s exactly what I have in mind for you today. Don’t you think it’s past time for one?”
Georgette vacillated between teetering nervousness and pitiful sobbing. Max had tried his best to persuade her to go upstairs to her room an hour ago, but she had adamantly refused. His mother had been extremely proud to be Louis Royale’s wife and had taken advantage of every opportunity to prove to the world that she was worthy of the title, so it was only natural that she would want to show everyone that she was truly the grieving widow. He didn’t doubt for a second that his mother had loved Louis with great passion or that that passion often bordered on obsession. She had seemed to need Louis to survive the way she needed air to breathe.
Max had loved Felicia, had wanted her desperately, and in the end had allowed her to treat him shamelessly, but he had no idea how it felt for another human being to be the beginning and the end of his universe. The intensity and depth of that kind of love—the kind his mother and Louis had shared—frightened him in a way that nothing else ever had.
“Louis would have enjoyed this,” Georgette said. “He did so love a good party.”
“Indeed he did,” Parry replied. “And he was no cheapskate when it came to paying for shindigs like this one. I always admired the way he enjoyed his money.”
“My husband was a very generous man.” She grasped Max’s arm. “I’m feeling a bit faint. Perhaps I should sit down.”
“Certainly, Mother.”
Max separated a bevy of chattering women to clear a path to the Queen Anne chair in the corner of the front parlor. He helped his mother sit, then knelt before her.
“Are you sure you don’t want to go upstairs for just a little while?”
She shook her head.
“Then how about something to drink? I’ll find Yvonne and get her to make you a cup of mint tea.”
“Yes, Max, that would be nice. A cup of tea. And be sure she adds three teaspoons of sugar. I like my mint tea very sweet.”
“She never forgets,” he said. “Coffee black. Tea very sweet.”
Max glanced around, searching for Mallory. Having seen her only once since their return home, he suspected she was hiding away in her room. He needed to check on her. She had been unusually quiet and emotionally remote since Louis’s death. His little sister was probably wondering, as was their mother, just how they could go on without Louis. Mallory had been his spoiled darling. After seeing to his mother’s tea, he’d go upstairs in search of his sister and try to persuade her to come downstairs and keep their mother company.
Halfway to the kitchen, he encountered his uncle again, who had a fresh drink in his hand. Parry grabbed his arm. “Wait up.”
Max paused, then gave Parry a hard glare.
“When are you going to throw this bunch of snobs out of here and get on with what’s important?” Parry asked.
“And that would be?”
“Finding out what Louis’s will says. We all need to know if we’re going to get kicked out of this place.” Parry leaned closer, his breath strong with liquor. “If he left anything to Jolie, you ought to protest. Get some big-time lawyer who specializes in breaking wills. That girl doesn’t deserve a dime.”
His mother’s brother had been the bane of his existence and an embarrassment to Mallory and their mother for years now. But the man was family and despite his outlandish behavior, Parry could often be charming and even on occasion endearing.
“Do me a favor, will you, Uncle Parry?”
“Name it, my boy.”
“Go upstairs and see if you can find Mallory and persuade her to come down and keep an eye on Mother.”
“Consider it done.”
Parry patted Max on the back, his touch rather forceful. Max drew in a calming breath; then when his uncle walked unsteadily toward the foyer, he continued on his way to the kitchen. He found the room buzzing with activity, but Yvonne was nowhere in sight. Had she, too, escaped somewhere upstairs?
“Can anyone tell me where Mrs. Carter is?” he asked the hired help working feverishly to replenish the food and wine trays.
“Mrs. Carter is on the back porch.” An attractive young woman dressed in the white shirt and black slacks that made up the catering service uniform smiled warmly, giving him a flirtatious look.
“Thank you.”
“Anytime, Mr. Devereaux.”
Ignoring the girl’s subtle come-on, Max marched through the kitchen and into the adjacent mudroom, then opened the back door and stepped out onto the porch. He heard them before he saw them—Yvonne and Jolie sitting side-by-side on the far end of the
porch, their hips poised on the wide banister railing.
“Won’t you even consider it, for Clarice’s sake?” Yvonne asked.
Jolie shook her head. “Nothing short of my returning to Belle Rose on a permanent basis would satisfy Aunt Clarice, and that simply isn’t going to happen.”
“Then give her a few days. Surely you can put aside your dislike for your father’s second family long enough to—”
“Dislike is too mild a word. I despise Georgette. And I don’t trust Max. I’m afraid I can’t disguise such strong emotions, not even for Aunt Clarice’s sake.”
“What about your sister? You can’t possible hate Mallory.”
“She’s my half sister. And you’re right. I don’t hate her. With her having Georgette for a mother, I feel absolutely nothing for her but pity.”
Max had two options—he could go back inside the house or he could make his presence known. Choosing the latter, he cleared his throat. The two women glanced his way. Yvonne slid off the banister railing. Jolie sat there staring at him.
“Yvonne, Mother would like a cup of mint tea,” Max said. “Would you mind preparing it for her? She’s in the front parlor.”
“Yes, of course,” Yvonne replied, then looked back at Jolie. “You behave yourself. Remember you’re a Desmond.”
Yvonne passed Max and went straight inside the house. With Jolie’s hostile gaze still boring into him, he moved toward her, one slow, deliberate step at a time. Before he reached her, she slid off the banister and onto her feet, then started to walk away. He reached out and grabbed her left wrist, halting her escape.
“Don’t rush off,” he said.
She jerked on her wrist, but he held fast. “Let go of me.”
“Not just yet. Not until—”
She raised her right arm, lifting her hand in preparation for attack. Just as she swung at him, he grabbed her right wrist and manacled it to the left. They glowered at each other.
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